— and you didn't tell me.'
'It was a dangerous assignment,' said Mann defensively. 'And a need-to-know classification means only those who must know are told.'
'So that's the way it's going to be from now on?' I said. 'O.K., but just don't complain afterwards.'
'Miss Bancroft,' said Mann.
Now it was my turn to go silent for a long time. 'Red?' I said finally. 'An A code agent? It took me ten years to get that.'
Mann stubbed out the cigarette he'd only just started. 'Temporary A code. Solely with Mrs Bekuv. No decision-making…'he waved a hand at the telephone… 'no access — you heard that for yourself — no filing, except through me. Just a nursemaid job.' He put the smouldering cigarette-stub into the ashtray and closed it.
'How long has she been working for the C.I. A.?'
'Is that still ongoing — you and the Bancroft girl?' The cigarette-stub was making a lot of smoke. Mann banged the ashtray to make sure it was closed but the smoke emerged from it just the same. 'Is it? Is it still serious?'
'I don't know,' I said.
'Yeah, well when a guy says he doesn't know if a thing like that's still serious — it's still serious.'
'I suppose so,' I admitted.
'Well, you'll have to forget her for a few days. You get down to that Norfolk nut-house, and kick shit out of our pal Jonathan. And you tell Professor goddamn Bekuv that if he wants to commit any more suicide and doesn't know how, I'll come down there and lend him a hand.'
'O.K.,' I said.
'And twist his arm, show him some more photos of Gerry Hart. He still knows a whole lot more than he's selling us.' Mann opened the ashtray again, and gave the cigarette-stub the
It was an exaggeration. Mann smiled. 'And stop at Petersburg en route, you mean? Stop and see Miss Bancroft.'
'Yes,' I said.
'Go by plane, kid. I told you to stay away from her. Do I have to put it in writing?'
'But…'
He said, 'We're friends, aren't we? Real friends I mean?'
'Yes,' I said. I looked at him, waiting for what would follow these portentous and, for Major Mann, unusually personal words. 'Why?'
Whatever he was going to tell me, he changed his mind about. 'Oh, I was just going to say, take care of yourself.' He changed lanes to get to the freeway exit. 'I'll take you to the airport,' he said.
I should have obeyed orders. I didn't, and what happened subsequently was all my fault. I don't mean that I could have influenced events, it was far too late for that, but I could have protected myself from the horror of it. Or I could have let Mann protect me, as he was already trying to do.
Chapter Eighteen
After Mann dropped me at the airport I went straight to the car rentals and asked about fast cars. I finally got a Corvette Stingray. While I was waiting for it, I bought a heart-shaped box of chocolate-covered fudge. The old lady behind the counter seemed relieved to get rid of it.
My car was gold with real leather upholstery, a V-eight motor of 200 b.h.p., and once on the highway I put my foot down all the way south. I told myself that I needed a fast car to pay a brief visit to Red and still reach Norfolk in time to phone Mann and convince him I'd taken the plane. But looking back on it, I realize that the flashy car was just one more part of my determination to make Red love me, as desperately as I loved her.
Red Bancroft, Mrs Bekuv and three shifts of heavies were tucked away in a house in the country, not far from St Petersburg, Virginia. It was a dark night, and the place was difficult to find. My headlights picked up a sign that said 'Hook Ups for Trailers and Campers'. There were only two trailers hooked into the power line and I heard the door of the nearest one click as soon as I stopped. A man stepped down. On the other side of the road there was a small sign for 'Pederson's Herb and Fruit Farm — Private'. I parked off the road close to a billboard that advised me 'Next time fly the friendly skies'.
With hardly a word spoken, he took me to the trailer, but not before flashing a torch into the back of my car and checking the boot to be sure I was alone. There were two more of them inside the trailer, big men with heavy woollen zipper jackets and high-laced boots, but their faces were soft and pale, and none of them looked the type who goes camping in the depths of winter. Behind the trailers I saw three cars and a couple of guard dogs secured to a post.
'I suppose it's O.K.,' he said reluctantly. He passed the card and the C.I.A. slips back across the table to me. 'You follow the path — through the yellow gate near the sign. I'll phone the house to tell them.' He switched off the lights before opening the trailer door: he was a careful man.
'Let's make it a surprise,' I said.
He looked at me with interest. Afterwards I wondered how much he knew about what was happening there, but he wasn't the sort of man who makes free with good advice. 'Suit yourself,' he said.
I dropped the car keys on to the table and then stepped down into the mud. It was a long way to the house, but as I got near there was enough light from the upstairs window to help me pick my way along the garden path, and across the apple orchard. The kitchen windows were uncurtained. I peered inside. The kitchen clock was at midnight, and I could see a tray, set with chinaware and flowers, all ready for next morning.
Softly, as if from miles away, I could hear voices, arguing loudly.
The kitchen door was unlocked — with so much security there was no fear of burglars — and I went in. I walked through the hall and into the lounge from which the voices came. There was an abandoned backgammon game in the middle of the carpet, and scatter-cushions on the floor. All was lit by the dusty blue light of the TV, and the voices were those of a TV quiz. There were a couple of chords from an electric organ and a round of applause from the studio audience. '… and, for ten thousand dollars… fingers ready on the buzzers all you nice people… In 1929, Douglas Fairbanks made his first all-talking movie. For this two-part question, I want, first, the name of his female star, and, for the second part, the name of the movie.'
On the air I could smell the mentholated cigarettes that Red smoked. I switched — on the lights — two big Chinese vases with parchment shades — there was no one here. A log fire was dying in the hearth, and near by there was a jug of water and a bowl of melting ice. There was also a whisky bottle and two glasses; all of them empty. The TV contestants were deep in thought. It was during this silence that I heard the groans from upstairs. 'Oh my God!' It was a woman's voice — Katerina Bekuv's, and there was a shrill strangled cry.
I don't know if I made much noise running up the stairs, two at a time; or if I shouted anything, or what I might have said. I can only remember standing in the bedroom doorway and looking at them: I remember how tanned was the nude body of Katerina Bekuv against the pale skin of Red Bancroft, who was kneeling over her. The groans I'd heard were not groans of pain. The scene is burned into my memory: Katerina Bekuv spread-eagled and limp, her head lolling back so that her long blonde hair almost reached the floor. Red tense, straightening her back to sit up and look at me, her eyes wide and fearful. From Katerina came a long orgasmic whisper. I stood there numb.
'Get some clothes on, Ambrose,' I said finally. 'Come downstairs. I want to talk to you.'
When Red Bancroft arrived in the sitting-room she was wearing nothing but a silk kimono, and even that was left untied. Her hair looked more auburn than red under this light and it was still dishevelled. She wore no make-up, and her face looked like that of a young child, but her demeanour was not childlike. She strode across to the TV set. I had been sipping at a measure of brandy and staring at the TV screen with unseeing eyes but now that she was standing there I heard the master of ceremonies say 'One of the most shocking crimes of the decade took place in 1929 in Chicago… Now here's your question…'
'Are you watching this?' she asked with mock politeness.
